


Sunday in Manacor

by mystivy



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-30
Updated: 2012-06-30
Packaged: 2017-11-08 21:09:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/447595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystivy/pseuds/mystivy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The flight to London was too long. He felt himself getting closer and closer to Rafa, kilometre by slow kilometre, and when he saw England below he felt his excitement rising as their altitude dropped. He had the entire evening planned out in his head. Pick up Rafa at six, fly to Manacor, arrive at eight. Then dinner, a long, late Spanish dinner, but not too late. By eleven, he wanted to be in bed, wrapping his tired legs and arms around Rafa’s body and finally, finally feeling his skin against his own. By the time the plane touched down he was shaking with impatience.  (Set after Roger won Halle and Rafa won Queen's.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday in Manacor

Roger was already on the plane by the time Rafa finished his press conference, keyed up and full of energy despite the long week coming straight after Roland Garros. It seemed to him that everything had moved slower than usual since he left the hotel; getting to his plane, making sure the luggage was on board, making sure Mirka caught her flight to Basel. Reto was with her. He saw their hands brush together now and then as they walked through executive check in, and his heart was weighed down with what they did for him. But they did it. Not a sign for anyone else to see that they belonged together.

They kissed him goodbye at the gate, and he made his way to the private jet, his pace hurried by his impatience. His pilot was ready to fly by the time he ran up the steps and buckled himself in.

The flight to London was too long. He felt himself getting closer and closer to Rafa, kilometre by slow kilometre, and when he saw England below he felt his excitement rising as their altitude dropped. He had the entire evening planned out in his head. Pick up Rafa at six, fly to Manacor, arrive at eight. Then dinner, a long, late Spanish dinner, but not too late. By eleven, he wanted to be in bed, wrapping his tired legs and arms around Rafa’s body and finally, finally feeling his skin against his own. By the time the plane touched down he was shaking with impatience.

Rafa ran up the steps almost before they had them aligned.

“Rogelio,” he said, flinging his arms around Roger as if they had not seen each other in weeks. Roger staggered under the weight, falling back against the curved wall of the plane.

He laughed, wrapping his arms around Rafa in return. “Rafa,” he said. And then they were kissing, Rafa’s hands holding his face, their mouths hot and hungry against each other.

They pulled apart at the sound of heavy clang of feet on the steps. Rafa’s face was glowing, his mouth still wet till he dragged the back of his hand across it. Roger straightened up as the rest of Rafa’s team came on board. Rafa Maymo looked at them with a knowing eye before he took a seat, but Francisco just smiled and thanked Roger warmly for the lift. Roger felt out of place, briefly; with Rafa, he still felt the instinct to hide. But when Rafa winked at him, his anxiety fled.

The flight was fast and uneventful. Roger was surrounded by rapid Spanish, but Rafa spoke to him in English in a low voice. They did not talk about tennis, but the satisfaction of winning warmed them both, animated their conversation and the shine in their eyes.

Manacor was balmy, the deep blue smell of the Mediterranean rolling in from the coast, and they took a car from the airport to Rafa’s family apartments. Rafa rolled down the window completely, the wind making his hair fly and a huge smile on his face. He closed his eyes and took in deep breaths of Mallorcan air, and Roger placed a hand on his back, feeling Rafa’s relief at being home.

Dinner was an informal affair, Rafa’s family loud and celebratory around the dinner table. Pasta, fish, crab claws and saffron rice, huge prawns in the shell and salads filled bowls and dishes all over the table, a bottle or two of wine opened and breathing, and carafes of water to drink. Roger cracked prawn shells with oily fingers and listened to the Catalan around him, picking up all he needed to understand with his shaky Italian. He basked in their congratulations and raised a glass to Rafa’s victory. Finally, after leisurely hours, the food was eaten and fingers were cleaned, and glasses stood empty with fingerprints blotching their bowls.

Outside, light bled towards the horizon until the sky above was black, clustered with stars. It was nearly eleven when Rafa caught his eye.

Rafa’s family allowed them to leave discreetly, piling dishes loudly in the kitchen while Rafa took his hand and they slipped away. The corridors were dark and they made hardly a sound as Rafa led them to his apartment, eager now and impatient, their appetites having been satiated while their desire rose. Roger pressed his body to Rafa’s while Rafa fumbled with keys; he laughed when Rafa dropped them and snaked an arm around his waist as he stooped to retrieve them, his mouth pressed to the back of Rafa’s neck as he straightened back up. Rafa found the key and unlocked the door.

They fell together inside, Rafa turning in Roger’s arms and pinning him to the door. The apartment was still in darkness but Rafa reached for no light. His hands were too busy rediscovering the shape of Roger’s chest and waist and ass, finding the dip in the base of his spine and following it to his shoulder blades. A wave of desire washed through Roger’s veins that could only be abated by closer proximity. He took hold of Rafa’s shirt and pulled it over his head, dropping it to one side, his hands on Rafa’s body before it even reached the ground.

“I missed you,” he mumbled against Rafa’s mouth, feeling it curve into a smile.

“I know,” Rafa replied, and kissed him.

They kissed hungrily and soon were chest to chest, skin to skin, pressed against the opposite wall. They kicked off shoes and socks as they stumbled their way in the dark towards the bedroom. They fell onto Rafa’s bed in a tangle of limbs, naked now and too impatient to be leisurely, too desperate to take their time. Their cocks were hot and hard between them, and Roger was already circling his hips, one of Rafa’s legs slung across his thigh as he ground down hard. Rafa groaned into his mouth.

It did not take long before they came, such had been their anticipation. It was fast and hot and their orgasms overcame them simultaneously, loud and crashing, till they lay panting in each others arms, sweat and come slicked between them, sticky on their skin.

Roger was still catching his breath when Rafa turned his face to him, nuzzling against his cheek, searching for a kiss. Roger laughed, just a breath, as their lips brushed together.

“Just a week and I missed you so much,” he said, pressing kisses over Rafa’s face, down his neck. Rafa hissed when he hit a spot just under his ear.

“I miss you too,” said Rafa, biting down gently on Roger’s shoulder. Roger felt his teeth and could not suppress the shock of excitement that rippled through his body. Rafa grinned against him. They rolled over and he reached for a towel beside the bed, wiping off their stomachs and lying back down. Roger loved the hardness of his body with its soft edges, the muscles there but not sharp, not too defined, just perfectly Rafa. He loved the weight of him between his legs, the girth of his hips between his thighs. Roger sighed as he leaned over him, hair hanging down either side of his face.

“I happy you win today,” murmured Rafa gently, his face barely visible in the dark but Roger could hear the smile.

“You too,” he whispered.

“How long till we go to London?” asked Rafa, dipping his head to lazily circle one of Roger’s nipples with his tongue.

Roger inhaled sharply before replying. “Wednesday.” Rafa grated his teeth over the nub and Roger felt the pull all the way down to his groin. “Or Thursday. Maybe Thursday.”

Rafa paused and murmured his agreement. Roger barely heard, and all he felt was Rafa’s mouth as it meandered lazily downwards, licking every inch of his skin as if mapping the tastes. Roger lay with one arm thrown over his eyes, and the fingers of his other hand buried in Rafa’s hair. By the time Rafa languorously dragged his tongue along the shaft of his semi-tumescent cock, Roger nearly lifted from the bed.

“Turn over,” said Rafa, already pushing him onto his belly, and Rafa draped himself once more over the full length of Roger’s body. “Something to tell you,” he whispered, placing kisses along the line of Roger’s shoulder.

“Mmm?” replied Roger lazily, his entire body languid under Rafa’s ministrations.

“This year, Wimbledon,” said Rafa, punctuating his sentences against Roger’s skin. “My house. Feliciano will not be there.”

Roger shifted a little, moving his head an inch towards Rafa. His eyes had become accustomed to the dark, now, and he could see the gentle outlines of Rafa’s face in the soft streetlight that made its way through the shutters. “No?” he said.

Rafa shook his head. “No,” he affirmed. He kissed Roger’s cheek. “You come, come whenever you like.”

Roger smiled, looking over his shoulder at Rafa’s earnest face full of promise. “I will,” he said.

Rafa said nothing; just held Roger’s gaze with a darkling look of his own, before returning to his mapping, his discovery of places he had discovered before, though Roger would never get tired of it. Rafa’s mouth and hands travelled down his back, a kiss on every vertebra, until without warning he felt Rafa’s teeth on his ass cheek. The sudden change from tongue to teeth was too much, and he cried out, pushing up against Rafa. He heard Rafa laughing to himself, before licking a long line along Roger’s ass. Roger was already gasping before Rafa decided to use his fingers.

By the time Rafa was finally inside him, Roger was almost incoherent with the sensation. He felt himself murmuring words but barely knew what he said; Rafa’s name, most certainly, and perhaps that was the only thing that mattered. Rafa was panting against his shoulder, his voice catching now and then with a groan reminiscent of the tennis court, though Roger was not thinking about that now. He thought only of the weight of Rafa above him, the strength of his arms on either side, and the feeling of him buried inside, hitting the spot with every deep thrust. Roger pushed back into every one.

This time it took longer, the pleasure rising and slowly rising, their bodies moving together and Rafa’s breath in his ear. When finally he came, it was explosive; he saw stars behind his eyes and felt nothing but a contraction of pleasure that seemed to encompass him from fingertips to toes to the pulsing of his cock. Rafa followed not long after, calling out his name and collapsing against him, spent and breathless.

It was some time before the moved to clean up, and then they lay for some time more, a sheet that smelled of summer laundry pulled over them in the warm Mallorcan night.

“We’ll stay here until Thursday,” said Roger, after a while.

“Yes?” murmured Rafa sleepily.

“Yes,” said Roger. “If we stay until Thursday, you know, we will have one more night like this.”

Rafa smiled. “Yes,” was all he said, before they drifted to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my wonderful and fantastic braintwin (and beta), best_of_five. ♥ ♥ :D


End file.
